


What Death Takes with It

by DRiver2U



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Death, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DRiver2U/pseuds/DRiver2U
Summary: DEATH OF A MAIN CHARACTER - The death of a main character happens in the first paragraph of the story and continues to be discussed throughout. Veronica struggles to cope with the death and her friends attempt to help her. The topics of depression and death appear throughout the story.Story is a one-shot, AU, non-canon piece with many of the original characters appearing in the story. All characters and original story belong to Rob Thomas. All mistakes are mine.(This has no relationship to any other story I've posted.)





	What Death Takes with It

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this sad tale. If only life was all sunshine and roses. This may be a difficult read, but I hope some of it rings true as a realistic piece of fiction.

When she had imagined trying to juggle diapers and a career, this was not what she had in mind. She never thought she would need to know that slip-on adult diapers sometimes have to be cut off for changing. She never thought she'd find out by sight that her father was not circumcised. She never thought she'd come to understand that no matter how much weight a person loses, an adult human body is still bulky to roll from side to side. She never thought she'd have to learn how to add a hospital bed to a small apartment living room. She never thought she'd go so long without sleep. She never thought she'd desperately want to see her father die and just as desperately beg for him to live. 

When the diagnosis came, it was a shock. Not just a shock but an explosion, an eruption, an earthquake. What surprised Veronica the most was the severity of the disease. She could handle chemo treatments, radiation, even surgeries because they would lead to more time together. But this cancer had been eating away at him, and they were none the wiser until it was too late. He'd had regular check-ups with the doctor. He'd taken fairly good care of himself. He had stress, but no more so than anyone else. 

When the doctor told them there were no treatments available, Veronica didn't know that was possible in this day and age. Wasn't there always something that could be done? The middle-aged, female doctor sat on the edge of her father's hospital bed and calmly told them he had 1-3 months to live. Their goal was to make the last days, weeks, hopefully, months as comfortable as possible. Comfortable. Was it possible to be comfortable while dying? 

Veronica mentioned she had a meeting in Seattle in 6 weeks. The doctor turned to her and gave her a toothless grin and said, "Let's see if we can help you evaluate if that will be the best decision." 

"So, closer to 1 month then," Veronica thought without saying the words and the doctor nodded at her as if reading her mind. Her father remained silent. Did he know the verdict was coming? Did he have an inkling he hadn't shared with her? Had he been trying to shield her for as long as he could? Why hadn't she noticed? 

She broke her apartment lease the day after the diagnosis and hired a moving firm to pack her belongings and deliver them to storage. The beauty of living in the 21st century is that she could hire people to do just about anything. Unfortunately, she couldn't pay someone to add a few more years to a life.

She moved into her old bedroom, but she spent little time there. When Keith came home after several days of tests and nights in the hospital, it was as if his mind told his body it was time to rest. Within days of his return, he had stopped making his way to the bathroom, stopped eating and drinking, and stopped communicating in much more than a few words or grunts. He was still a nice man, a good dad, trying to smile through pain and embarrassments and challenges. 

The hospice nurse visited once a day for half an hour. Veronica was amazed at her own stupidity about how to care for the dying. She had assumed hospice would send over some Florence Nightingale to watch over her father while she worked and brought in money to pay for the expenses. Instead, Veronica had become his full-time caregiver. On days when she had to be in the office, she spent two hours at work and would rush home to check on her father. She would do her necessary duties and speed back to Mars Investigations for another two hours. She had learned every shortcut between MI and the apartment. It was too much for her to handle, but she wouldn't let him die surrounded by strangers.

Veronica didn't understand what happened to his biological clock, but her father only slept during the sunlight hours. She had re-arranged the furniture so his hospital bed was close to the window and he could see outside, but he seemed to have no need for the view. He slept soundly, peacefully during the day, but he made terrifying groans, moans, and cries throughout the night. Veronica would soothe him as best as she could. She'd sing his favorite songs, tell him about her day, hold his hand. She hadn't felt her bed since four nights after he returned home from the hospital. 

Finally, the hospice nurse looked at her one morning and said, "It's best if you give him extra morphine to ease his pain." 

"I don't think he's in much pain," Veronica argued. "He just sleeps and he still tries to smile at me sometimes when I talk to him."

She took Veronica's hand and looked her in the eye. "You need to ease his pain." She left the extra drugs on the counter before continuing. "You know to call me when the time comes. You have my number. Any time. Day or night." 

**********

_~ Four Weeks Earlier ~_

_"Dad, I'm taking you to the emergency room," Veronica directed towards the couch as she pulled her keys from the front door on the cloudy Sunday morning. "It's not normal to be this sick for so many days."_

_"I'm sure it's fine, dear daughter," Keith whispered as he watched her sit on the coffee table next to the couch. He didn't lift his head from the pillow or pull the blanket closer to his chin. He just stared at her with the same vague expression he'd used for the past week._

_"It's been too long for the flu or food poisoning," she said placing her hand on his forehead. "Still no fever. Come on. Get up, old man, and go with dignity. It's going to be a lot more embarrassing for both us if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming."_

_He hadn't gone reluctantly, and that should have been the first sign for Veronica. He, too, wanted to find out what was wrong. Veronica had to help him tie his shoes. She tugged his arm to lift him from the couch. He stopped every few steps on the way to the car to catch his breath._

_Several hours later, Keith was sleeping tucked into a hospital bed and Veronica rotated between sitting on the uncomfortable chair, pacing, and reorganizing the generic equipment found near the bed. After hours of tests, the doctor parted the curtain around the bed. It was obvious his return indicated a discussion of the outcomes, and Veronica wondered how HIPAA laws allowed doctors to speak to patients when the guy in the next bed would have no problem hearing the discussion. So much for patient confidentiality._

_"Mr. Mars," he began as his patient looked at him with vacant eyes, "we've looked at the results, and, uh, there are some, uh, spots, uh, on your, uh, liver." Clearly, this ER doctor was more comfortable dealing with elderly pneumonia, drunken and high patients desperate for a fix, and childhood broken arms, not with giving patients a death sentence._

_"Are you sure you've got the right file?" Veronica asked. "He hardly drinks. Maybe a beer while watching the Padres." Veronica wondered how it was possible that this was her parent with a liver problem, rather than her long-lost alcoholic mother._

_"Yes, we're, uh, sure," he continued. "We'd like to, uh, admit you to the, uh, palliative care unit."_

_"I don't know what that means," Veronica argued._

_"It's the, uh, area for, uh, patients with, uh, little, uh, time," the physician sputtered._

_"Little time?" Veronica asked and looked at Keith who had no response or reaction._

_"There are, uh, lots of, uh, spots on the, uh, liver."_

_"Spots? Do you mean, like, cancer spots?" Veronica asked. "Do you mean he has cancer?"_

_"Yes, uh, yes."_

_"So why isn't he being admitted to oncology?"_

_"Palliative care seems a, uh, better, uh, option at this, uh, point," he said avoiding Veronica's glare._

_"I'm sorry, but I'm still not following," she admitted and wished she had minored in biology or pre-med. She prided herself on her intelligence, but she was drowning in a sea of unknown._

_"It's better if they discuss, uh, options with you, uh, upstairs," the doctor said. "But palliative care is for, uh, patients not likely to, uh, recover."_

_Veronica blinked quickly and looked between the doctor and her father. She swallowed and took the hand resting on the white sheet. "Right," her voice steady and unfaltering. "Right, so we'll go upstairs, and we'll see what the options are, Dad. Everything will be fine. They'll know more upstairs."_

_"We'll have, uh, someone take him, uh, up. There's a, uh, room ready for, uh, him," the man in the white coat said. For all her investigative training, Veronica's certain she would never be able to pick him out in a line-up, her reality clouded by confusion._

_"Thank you for all your help today," Veronica said and gathered up her father's belongings. She hoped she never had to see an emergency room again in her life._

**********

Keith had been coherent enough the first days after the diagnosis to give her some directions. No funeral. No burial. No memorial service. He wanted to leave as humbly as he had arrived. He wanted to be cremated with ashes scattered or saved. That was up to her. The only mention in the newspaper should be a notice in _The San Diego Union-Tribune_ listing facts. Date of birth. Date of death. Wife's name. Daughter's name. Birthplace. Deathplace. There would be enough public information available if someone in a future generation needed his details. Otherwise, he wanted to go out without fanfare. He was, after all, a private detective, not an open-book detective. 

They signed papers, changed names on accounts, and tried to do as many tasks as possible while he still had the ability to write his own name. Keith's ever-faithful friend and colleague visited. He came around every couple of days until Veronica would no longer let him in the front door. "You don't want to remember him like this, Cliff," Veronica said. She knew that was true because she did not want to recall him like this, but she feared the images of her emaciated, yellow-skinned, blurry-eyed father would be the only picture in her mind for a long, long time. 

He died in the night. At 2:37 a.m. With a strangled gasp. She called the hospice nurse. The nurse called the funeral home and the hospital supply company. Veronica called no one else. She closed his bedroom door. She slept on the couch in the empty living room, waking only to cry. 

She went to work the next day. She emailed the death notice, the short obituary, to the funeral home to be disseminated to the newspaper. She texted only 3 people: her father's best friend Cliff and her stalwart pals Mac and Eli. Had her world come down to a mere three people, one of whom belonged to her father? She shot off a brief email to Wallace, her high school best friend now traveling in Africa. His phone reception and internet connections were limited, at best, while he backpacked following his stint in the Peace Corps. She didn't bother to read their responses or pick up their calls. She went to work the following day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that. 

Her nights were spent in bed. If she held out until 7:30, she was proud of herself. Her sheets reeked of tears and sweat and sadness, but she couldn't be bothered to change them. She couldn't be bothered to do laundry. 

She knew she was depressed. She should be depressed. She had lost her father. No, her father had died. He was not lost. He was gone. Gone forever. She knew depression was normal. Grief includes depression, but this seemed too much. What she wouldn't give for a timeline that would tell her when she would feel like her old self again. She had no hopes of ever again feeling excited or happy, but there had to be more emotions than utter and complete sadness. 

She laid in bed most nights staring at the ceiling or the high school photos on the dresser or the stuffed animals in the corner. It didn't matter. She didn't see any of them. They were all just place keepers in the room. 

The depression was killing her. She was aware of that. But she also knew she wasn't going to kill herself. She wouldn't do that. Suicide was not the answer for her father, and he wouldn't want it to be for her. She was logical enough to realize the depth of her depression, but she was irrational enough to think she would be fine without help. She didn't want to die. She just wanted to sink so far into the bed that it would swallow her up into a long embrace, so tight that she would never be forced to leave the clutches of the room. 

But she did leave. Every morning. She pulled herself out of bed at the exact same time every morning. She took a shower. She ate her cereal. She went to work. She had a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. She finished her work day. She drove home. She had a bowl of cereal. She waited on the couch until 7:30. She went to bed. Life could be worse, she reminded herself. Lots of people don't go to work. They don't even have that distraction to keep them from bed. 

**********

Four months after her father's death, Veronica changed the hours at Mars Investigation to "by appointment only." She's still there every day at the same time in the morning. She still locks the door at the same time each evening, but she doesn't want anyone dropping by the office. She tells herself it's a safety issue. She shouldn't have an open-door policy when any stranger could walk in off the street. In her line of business, more often than not, the client or target or both are more than a little strange.

At the apartment, she can stay in her room and avoid the knocking. She can switch off her phone at night and avoid the calls, but clients are a different matter. If she is honest with herself, she knows she has no interest in background checks, cheating spouses, or private investigations of any kind. But it's what she does. It's what her father did. So she keeps doing it. Every day. And she posts the sign on the office door. "By appointment only" or as she really means, "Stay the fuck away from me."

**********

Veronica's schedule is interrupted because there is no way she can go one more day without stopping at the grocery store. She grabs a cart. There's no need for a list. It's the same every trip - two boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (for breakfast), two boxes of Cheerios (for dinner), two jars of peanut butter (for lunch), bread, butter, and, of course, milk. There's no breakfast or dinner without the milk. Whenever she checks out with a cart of processed calories, she hopes the cashier believes she is a terrible mother feeding her children horrible foods. It seems a better option than being an adult still eating like a child. 

As she rounds the last aisle to head for the refrigerated dairy items, she spies the two unmistakable men, the high school friends and surfer buddies, debating the protein content of various yogurts. Single words float through her head: nemesis, friend, lover, torturer, savior, kisses, murder. She drops her hands from the cart and her eyes to the ground, leaves her stocked cart at the end of the aisle, and maneuvers straight for the automatic doors. 

It was no accident she picked this grocery store after her father died. It's 8.6 miles from Mars Investigation, far enough away from Neptune that she thought she could avoid anyone she might know. She'll have to find a new grocery store now that she knows who else frequents it. Maybe she'll order online and have the non-perishables sent directly to her front door. She'll learn to survive without milk and butter. 

**********

He's waiting for her when she pulls her RAV4 into the apartment complex parking lot. She wonders if he scared people away while he was waiting. He still looks ready for a brawl sitting in his leathers on his hog and his neck tattoos prominently on display. His shaved head adds to the tough-guy persona. Their relationship is one of mutual respect more than kindred spirits. If someone had told her in high school this ex-gang leader would be the one person who never faltered in his loyalty, she would be both amazed and unruffled. They value the allegiance of no-nonsense, straight-talking reliability. 

"Hey, stranger," Veronica says with a half-smile as she locks her car doors. 

" _Mierda_. That's it? You've been AWOL for weeks and all I get is a 'hey'," Eli jokes. "Hop on." 

" _No puedo_ ," says Veronica with a lift of her shoulders. 

"Yep, you can. Hop on. Throw your bag back in your car. Grab the helmet. _Vamonos_ ," he directs. 

She doesn't fight his directions a second time. It's too much work to argue. Veronica is glad she chose jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt with a linen jacket for her work uniform today. She loosens her ponytail so she can slip the helmet onto her head. It's been years since she's ridden with Eli, but it feels the same as it did when he rescued her more than once before. She settles on the back end of the bike and steadies herself with a light touch on his sides. 

He knows she isn't looking for a wild ride, but he needs to get her out of her tunnel. He needs to shake her up just a bit. He takes off up the coast and Veronica wants to let go of him. She wants to throw her arms out wide and let the speed and the wind lift her off the bike and let her float without feeling. But she doesn't. She holds on like he's taught her. Anchors herself to reality. 

When he pulls into the retro-looking ice cream stand, he waits for her to get off the bike before he slants it onto the kickstand. She tugs the helmet off, slips the elastic band from her hair and into her pocket, and shakes her hair loose. She can smell the ocean even though she can't see it. 

"I didn't bring my bag. Got no money, _amigo_ ," she teases him as she pouts while pointing to the ice cream sign. 

"My treat," Eli says without hesitation.

"Like a date? Are you my date tonight?" Veronica mocks. She claps her hands once and keeps them together as if in prayer. 

"Yeah, my wife told me I had to take you on a date tonight. She's tired of you not coming around anymore. She needs a friend and a babysitter," Eli says as he grabs her jacket sleeve and pulls her in the direction of the order window. 

It's been months since Veronica's had ice cream and the thought makes her stomach turn. But she doesn't see cereal on the menu or think ice water would be appropriate. "Small strawberry milkshake, please," she orders. 

Mr. Dependability slides in next to her and takes over the ordering process. "No, make it a large shake, and I'll have a Coke." She is sure the counter help has seen it all on this stretch of road, but Veronica notices the quick glances the employee makes between the Latin tough guy and the petite, blonde beauty. There was a time when Veronica would have relished messing with the teenager with some pretend-flirting with the biker, but those days are gone. Veronica sees no more fucking-with-someone-just-to-fuck-with-them times in her future. 

Eli has hardly paid for their drinks when both are ready. They head to a picnic table and sit across from each other. Their movements tip the unbalanced table at inconsistent times. Veronica takes a long drink through the straw, and she can't remember anything ever tasting so delicious. 

"You've been avoiding us," her friend states and questions at the same time. 

"Not more than anyone else," Veronica replies, coming up for a breath from inhaling through the red and white striped straw. She's afraid to stop drinking, afraid the perfection of the pink delight will change flavor midway through the conversation. 

"Sara wants to know if you need help," Eli says tapping her under the table with his black boots. 

"Nope. I'm good," Veronica testifies and glances in the general direction of his face. "Thanks for asking, but I'm good. Tell your wife I'm all good." 

"Great. That means you're coming to Alejandra's birthday party." 

"Wish I could, but I've got things to do on Sunday," Veronica says, avoiding any contact with Eli's eyes. "If it were any other time, I'd definitely be there. You know I wouldn't miss it if I didn't have to." 

"You'll be there because Sara says you're picking up the cake. And don't forget the candles. Two. Think you can handle two candles?" he asks. 

"Please, Eli," Veronica pleads and meets his eyes. "Don't make me do this." 

"You not only have to bring the cake, you have to order it and pick out the flavor and decorations. She's your goddaughter, V. You need to be there." 

"Yes, of course," she accepts and looks down at the table. "I'll be there. And I'll bring the cake. Is she still all about Dora?" 

"Nah, she's moved on. That was so 2 months ago. Now she's all about trains." 

"Good thing I hadn't picked out a gift for her yet," Veronica jokes. She wonders if she has time to order something online or if she is going to have to drag herself to a store to find a railroad present. 

"We're worried about you, V.," Eli admits. "It's not like you to hide away like this. You don't even return our calls."

"I'm fine. Really. I know how busy you guys are. I'm just staying out of your way. You don't need me to be a burden. Focus on your own family. I'm fine," Veronica says convincing herself and her friend. She takes the last swallows of her drink and lifts her eyebrows as she makes the obnoxious noise through the straw as she tries to suck out the last drop of milkshake. "Take me home?" 

"Let's go," he says as he stands and shifts his head towards his bike. "This time, hold on tighter. I don't want you slipping away." 

**********

Veronica has no food, coffee, or milk in the apartment, but she needs to eat something before giving her deposition. There's a new Peet's Coffee that opened across from Java the Hut. She doesn't know anyone who frequents it because it's been an affront to the downtown business community that a chain store would have the gall to open so close to the beloved and locally-owned caffeine establishment. Peet's seems like the perfect place for Veronica to slip in and out of on her way to the lawyer's office. She won't know the staff or the customers. There will be no need to make eye contact. No requirement of small talk. 

One banana nut muffin. One cafe au lait. One no-wait line to order. One pretend text conversation on her phone. One deep exhale when she turns to open the door, food and drink in hand. 

As she's walking to her SUV with coffee and pastry in one hand and keys in the other, she keeps her head down and her earbuds in, sound on high. She ditches her bag into the passenger seat, sets the coffee in the cup holder and the pastry on the seat, and heads to the driver's side. She takes the wires from her ears and pulls out of the parking spot uninterrupted. Mission accomplished. 

**********

Logan leans against the wall next to the front door of The Hut as he waits for his best friend to follow with his cappuccino. His tilt is legendary. He knows it, and he's perfected it. It's casual, confident, comfortable. It used to scream decadence and now it oozes superiority. As much as he complained about the corruption of the town that shaped him for nearly 10 consecutive years of his life, he ruled it then and not much of the power system has changed. He may be an officer in the navy now, but he knows what to expect from it and it from him. His job forces him to spend most days away, but he still owns the streets, the sand, the memories. 

Logan spots his former friend as she walks out the door of the chain coffee house across the street. She's wearing a dark business suit, skirt tight and above the knees, jacket fitted, blouse light blue, heels black and high. Very high. She looks thin. Thinner than he remembers. Her blonde hair hangs straight, reminding him of how she wore it while in high school pep squad, minus the butterfly clips. The years before he began to chase her. Not the years before he loved her because he probably always loved her in some way, shape, or form since the day he met her. 

When Dick walks out, Logan nods towards her, his Veronica. It's hard for him to stop staring at one of his oldest friends and impossible to stop thinking of her as his Veronica. He thinks he can still call her a friend. They haven't talked for years, but that's what happens when people go their own ways. Daily chats become weekly texts. Texts become monthly calls. Calls become quarterly emails. Occasional emails become Christmas letters. And some become nothing but silence. 

The sight of her reminds him of how much he has missed her over the years. He wonders if all men look at their exes and speculate if they still kiss the same, taste the same, moan the same, fight the same. He would like to experience the answer to any of those with her. 

He knows because he witnessed it that she left Hearst College, and his life for all intents and purposes, after freshman year in favor of Hawaii Pacific University. She never told him why she spit at Stanford and headed instead for the island. He'd heard she got a second degree, but he wasn't sure in what. They'd parted on good terms. Well, maybe good was pushing it, but they were at least on speaking terms at that point. Perhaps speaking terms was also being too generous. He's pretty sure they'd stopped fighting, but maybe that was because they'd stopped communicating.

"Dude, word is that she's a mess," Dick shrugs as he hands his best friend a paper cup of energy. 

"Why?" asks Logan as Veronica's silver car pulls away from the curb and they make their way to Dick's red Range Rover. Their surf boards lie strapped to the top on the rack. The two old friends are casual in their shorts, t-shirts, sunglasses, and flip-flops. They look like they just rolled out of someone's bed because they did.

"Since her dad died. Didn't I tell you that? Happened months ago. Guess I forgot to mention that while you were flying planes in the middle of the ocean. See all the shit you miss when you leave for months at a time?"

"Keith? Keith died?" Logan stutters and doesn't know how to process the information. "What happened?" 

"Cancer. Nasty. Like super quick. Diagnosis then dead in a few weeks," Dick explains as they both close their doors, set their drinks in the holders, and fasten their seatbelts. Although Dick and Veronica were classmates and acquaintances and neither of them would consider themselves friends, he's heard the rumors. The death of former-Sheriff Keith Mars was the talk of Neptune for several weeks. Everyone seemed to have a story about the sheriff-turned-private detective. Some of the stories were salacious. Some were flattering. Some were touching. All of them ended with a combination of the words "such a shame," "Veronica," and "should have been his drunk of a wife," not in any particular order. 

"Fuck." Logan turns to look at where her car had been as if there were still a ghost of her to explain what had happened. He knew Veronica would execute revenge on anyone responsible for her father's death, but what would she do to handle her emotions when there was no one to blame? She had been there for him when his parents died. He needs to repay the debt, there is no question in his mind that this is one thing he must do. He feels guilty for not reaching out, not helping, not even fucking knowing. 

"Everything was on the hush-hush. Don't know why. No one seems to know. But no funeral. No wake. No balloon release in the park. No anything. Just gone. Like he never existed," Dick explains as he pulls out of their prime parking space and eases into traffic. Although safety isn't ever his top concern, he drives slowly not wanting to tip their coffees or their boards. 

"I should call her," Logan says, the internal debate spewing from his mouth. 

"You say that every time you're around," Dick says. "Then you find something better to do. Like what was her name last night? Chelsea? Kelsea? Chloe?"

"Zoey."

"Definitely, not Zoey," Dick laughs as he sticks his fist out for bumping, "but bonus points for saying it like you believe it."

"You try living like a monk for eight months," Logan says and taps the fist in front of him. 

"No judgment, man. Just glad you're back so we can enjoy life together." 

Logan pauses before he says anything again. Dick's right. It wasn't Zoey, and he really has no fucking idea what her name was. Is, what her name is. But he knows there won't be a follow-up meeting. At least, not by choice. Not by his choice. "You think I should call her?"

"Who? What's-her-name from last night?"

"No, Veronica," he says and turns his head to scan the well-kept streets he's traveled since he was 12 years old. "Should I call after so long? I should definitely call her. Would that be weird?" 

"Totally weird," Dick says as he navigates the last stoplight in the downtown area before heading towards the beach. Full-time Neptune resident Dick Casablancas sees Veronica in town now and again. Their tumultuous relationship has not improved since high school. There was a brief, awkward point when Veronica returned to their hometown when they attempted polite greetings. It didn't last long. Now it's more likely to be a glance away pretending not to see each other. "I mean, what would you say to her at this point?"

When Dick pulls into the parking spot, Logan steps out of the vehicle and taps into his phone. He doesn't even know if she has the same phone number. He thumbs through his list of contacts and there she is. The only "V" listing he's ever had. He once had a college study group that included a guy named Vincent, and he'd listed him in his phone by his last name in order not to contaminate the sacred letter. He hits call and listens to the line go directly to voicemail. It's not her voice, just a computer-generated message that repeats back to him the number he just dialed.

"Veronica, it's Logan. Uh, Logan Echolls. Long time. That's my fault. I should have called. Before. Sooner. Uh, so I was away, and I just heard about your dad. I'm so sorry. If you need anything, let me know. Really, I'm so sorry. If you want to get together or need to talk, just let me know." 

Logan turns his phone off and heads back to the Rover. He throws the phone in the glove box, takes a long swig of his cappuccino, and heads to the rear of the SUV to grab his wetsuit. Dick looks him over. "Did you call Ronnie?" he asks. His refusal to give up calling Veronica by her middle school nickname is one of the reasons she continues to avoid him. 

"Left a message."

"Cool. Let's surf, bro." 

**********

Even when she is fully on her game, Veronica hates depositions. She's always afraid she will slip up on some minute detail and have to backtrack on her account. It makes her feel unprepared and even slightly shady. She has to admit that she's hardly at top functionality at this point in her life. She just hopes the coffee and muffin gave her enough energy to remember what needed to be expressed. 

When she returns to Mars Investigations, she grabs her peanut butter sandwich from her purse and unscrews the cap on the water bottle that's been sitting on her desk for three days. She spots her phone and pulls it out. There's a message. 

"Veronica, it's Logan. Uh, Logan Echolls. Long time. That's my fault. I should have called. Before. Sooner. Uh, so I was away, and I just heard about your dad. I'm so sorry." Veronica hits delete before she hears more of the message. She shakes her head, blinks away tears, and turns the phone over, placing it gently on her desk. She powers on her computer and starts in on the day's emails. Only 6 more hours and she will allow herself to fall into her stinky sheets. 

**********

Saturday morning is like every morning of the week for Veronica. She doesn't allow herself out of her routine, unless it can't be avoided. Tomorrow, unfortunately, will be one of those days when she can't go to the office to hide. She doesn't have the work to necessitate the hours, but it's better than sitting in the house staring at the spot where Keith died. She wonders how long it will be before her memories change because now all she sees when she thinks about her father is his sunken, jaundiced, dying face. And the body that failed him. The man she couldn't save. 

She pulls her phone from the charger as she pours herself a bowl of cereal. More voicemails to listen to and probably not return. As she reaches in the refrigerator, she puts the device on speaker and listens. 

"Yo, V. Did I tell you the party starts at 1:00? Don't be late. And don't forget the cake. You forget the cake and you'll have to deal with the crying child." Veronica almost smiles and hits delete. How could she forget? It's the only social event she's had on the calendar since the hospital bed was pulled from the living room. 

"Hey, Veronica. It's Logan. Not sure if you got my message, but I just wanted to call again and say how sorry I am. Listen..." Veronica hits delete before she can follow his direction and listen to anything else. One social event in 5 months is plenty, thank you very much. She pours the milk into the bowl and stands over the sink as she shovels cereal into her mouth with the extra large serving spoon. 

**********

As she walks up the porch stairs, she can't imagine why she didn't have the cake delivered. It was only $10 extra for delivery and it would have saved her the anxiety she's felt since she opened her eyes. She's juggling the cake box in her open palms, her purse on her shoulder, and the store-issued gift bag on her arm. She knocks on the screen door with her toe and waits for little voices. Instead she hears the deep voice of her old friend. 

"You made it. I hope you're up to babysitting because I now owe Sara a dinner out. Figured it was a sure bet that you'd blow us off," Eli jests and opens the door for her. 

"Can't disappoint my goddaughter," Veronica says as she steps into the living room. "One train cake in hand. Two candles in my purse. And a present on my wrist. I aim not to disappoint today." 

Sara walks in from the kitchen as Eli takes the cake from Veronica's hands, careful not to tip it to one side. He sticks it on the counter as Sara envelopes Veronica in a tight hug. Veronica's arms are at her side, not quick enough to make the motion to embrace her friend in return. 

"I've missed you. We've missed you," she says into Veronica's hair.

"Yeah, uh, you too," Veronica sighs. As she stands pinned to her friend, she feels the grasp of smaller arms around her legs. 

"Tia V. Tia V. Tia V," the two girls chant in unison. Sara loosens her grip and Veronica kneels down to the smiling faces. Though they are 2 years apart, there is no mistaking they are sisters. They both have dark hair, round cheeks, brown eyes, and, today, yellow dresses. She kisses both of the girls with quick, small pecks in their ears and the girls giggle with delight. 

"How are my favorite Navarros?" Veronica asks. 

"Good," the girls say in unison. Veronica wonders if they even sneeze at the same time. 

"Don't worry, my sweethearts. I brought the cake. The party can begin," sings Veronica. 

"The party can start because you're here, Veronica," Sara says. 

As Veronica looks up from her place on the floor, she sees the kitchen clock on the wall. Only 75 minutes before she gives herself permission to leave what will be a fantastic party. Only 6 1/2 hours before she can return to the comfort of her bed. 

**********

Veronica finally pulls the gross sheets from her bed and outfits the twin mattress with clean linens. The dirty sheets are in the middle of the room on the floor, not having made it to the laundry basket or the washing machine. At least the stink is a few feet away from her now. 

Here are some of the revelations Veronica's had while lying in bed. (1) When lying on one's back, tears rarely go down cheeks. They fall out the side of the eyes and roll towards the hairline. Sometimes they even make it into the ears. (2) When lying on one's side, tears can make it over the bridge of the nose and end up in the other eye. (3) It's impossible to run while in bed. She's heard that the way to fight her depression is to get up and exercise. Start a running program. Great idea. Not getting out of bed, so not going to happen. (4) Some kind of medication would have to help her. She's logical enough to know she needs it and stubborn enough to know she'll avoid a doctor in a white coat as long as physically possible. (5) The elderly woman who lives above her apartment goes to bed later than she does. (6) It's easy to live in a space for 6 months without cleaning it. (7) Winter and shorter days can't come soon enough. (8) It's best to write thank-you notes immediately after food/flowers/donations arrive. It's awkward enough running into the neighbors, and a dangling etiquette faux pas doesn't make it easier. 

**********

She doesn't know why she took her phone to the bedroom. It's become habit to leave it on the charger on the kitchen counter. The text from her best girlfriend comes in soon after she drops her head on the pillow. She made great friends in Hawaii and has work acquaintances, but her high school pal knows her too well to give up on her, even if misery is her only current speed.

_Whatcha doin?_

_In bed, Mac. You?_

_It's 7:45, Veronica. Why are you in bed?_

_Headache._ Veronica doesn't consider it a lie. She does have a headache, but she would have gone to bed without it. 

_Should I call tomorrow? Let you rest?_

_No, it's fine. What's up?_

_Just checking on you._

_I'm fine. How are you? The twins?_

_We're all good. We'll be in Neptune for my brother's birthday. Beach?_

_When?_

_Got meetings in SD and then I'm taking Tuesday and Wednesday off for family bonding. Anytime will work for us on T or W._

_Sure. Can I get back to you with specifics?_

_Yes, if you promise to actually send me a text or, god forbid, deem me worthy enough to call me._

_Promise. I should be better about both. Sorry about that. See you soon._

_Yep, we'll have loads of fun. Don't blow me off._

The phone hasn't even hit her bedside table when another text arrives. This one is from her ex-boyfriend, ex-friend Logan. 

_Just checking to see if I have the right number. Still at this number, Veronica?_

She studies the message but doesn't respond and sets the phone on her nightstand. It's not long before she hears the chime again. 

_You know I can tell if you've seen the message._

Veronica sighs. How could she have forgotten to change that notification setting on her phone? And why won't everyone just leave her the fuck alone? 

_Yep, right number. Got your messages. Thanks for the condolences._

_How are you?_

_Fine._

_I'm in town another week. Want to get together?_

_Not sure I have the time._

_You could make time._

_Right. I'll think about it. Good night._

_It's not even 8:00. Little early for that._

_Yeah, just meant goodbye. I'll get back to you._

_When?_

_Later._

_How about now? Drink? Late dinner? Ice cream?_

_No thanks._

_I could bring ice cream to you._

_Not tonight. Thanks. Gotta go._

She turns off her phone before she can see another text from Logan. She's made it through the weekend. Made it through the birthday party. Made it through communicating with too many people. She needs to reward herself. She closes her eyes and pretends she's somewhere else. Anywhere else.

**********

Logan stops by Mars Investigations on Monday afternoon. He's left Dick still hung-over on the couch and he stopped by Mama Leone's to pick up cannoli. He hopes he can bribe his way into Veronica's office with some sugar and flavored sweet cheese. There is not much in life that is constant, so he hopes her devotion to desserts remains in tact. If so, he wouldn't be surprised if she can smell the pastries from the hallway. 

He makes his way up the stairs and turns the knob of the closed door. It's locked and the newish sign on the door says in fancy script "By Appointment Only." He's almost certain there are lights on, but it could be sunlight streaming through the windows onto the floor. He knocks and calls her name. There's no sound. No motion. No anything. He takes out his phone and calls her cell. He doesn't hear a ringtone, chime, or buzz from the other side of the door. He's tempted to leave the pastries outside the door and text her they are there, but he knows there's a good possibility she could be on a case. If she's gone the rest of the afternoon, he's afraid the creamy delights will spoil. Better to bring them home to Dick. 

**********

It's Wednesday morning and she doesn't go to work. Another social engagement she couldn't ditch. Another day without routine. 

The first thing she does upon exiting the bathroom is to stand and look at the closed door to her father's bedroom. For the first time since he was carted from the apartment, she turns the handle and opens it wide to see his personal space. "Hi, Dad," she says quietly to the empty room and tears trickle down her face. "I fucking hate that you died." There's no response. Of course, there's no response. 

She turns and walks into the kitchen. The last of her cereal is combined into one bag; it's an exciting breakfast combo of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Cheerios. No milk in the refrigerator means dry cereal and a class of tap water. She walks back to Keith's bedroom door and stares into the room not yet crossing the threshold. 

When she finishes her breakfast, she walks into his bedroom and opens the closet door. "Let's do this, Veronica. Just one thing today. One small thing. Set a goal, and do it. No matter how trivial." She never used to talk to herself, but now the conversations in her head are said aloud throughout the apartment. 

She looks at the packed storage area and sighs. "Pants. Trousers. Slacks. Jeans. Just one thing," she reminds herself. She pulls each pair of pants from a hanger and checks all the pockets before folding them into piles on the bed. In less than an hour, she's gone through them all and separated them into garbage bags. She'll take them to Buster's Bargain Bazaar on the way to the beach. Maybe the donation of his clothes will help one dog be rescued. 

She rewards herself by going back to bed. 

**********

There's no mistaking Mac and her parents as they wrangle Mac's twins for lunch. Gray hair, brown hair with purple streaks, and flaxen hair disguise any biological bonds, but there is no mistaking the casual movements, laughter, and friendly tones of the familial bonds. 

Veronica takes her sandals off and carries them in her hands as she makes her way to the beach blanket. It's similar to a tent canvas, and she wonders if it's something they've used during their decades of family camping trips. Mac catches her eye as she sees her friend wiggle her hips as she walks in the sand. She squeals as she reaches out to high-five Veronica. 

"Oh, it's so good to see you," Mac gushes. Veronica thinks it's for show. Mac's never been one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. 

"Ah, you're just happy for an excuse to spend time away from the office," Veronica counters and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You look great, Q." They still default to calling each other by their high school nicknames, Bond for the perky blonde sleuth and Q. for the tech-savvy co-conspirator. 

"You too. My parents wanted to hang until we meet Ryan for his birthday supper. I hope that's cool," Macs says. The aging Sam and Natalie stand from the cloth, and Natalie pats Veronica's shoulder. It's the first time she can recall her doing that. She's not sure if it is a motherly or grandmotherly gesture, she's had so few of either in her life. 

"We're so sorry, Veronica," Sam says from behind his wife's shoulder. "Your dad was an upstanding guy. It's a loss for the whole community. What a shame." 

"Yeah. Right. Thanks," Veronica stutters. "I appreciate that." 

"How about some lunch?" Natalie asks. "We brought plenty. Sandwiches, fruit, chips, brownies."

"I ate before I left," Veronica responds. "Don't let me stop you, though." 

"Mom and Dad, could you watch Mary-Kate and Ashley?" Mac asks her parents.

"You know they're going to start believing those are their real names if you aren't careful," her mother scolds. 

"What can I say? They have the same pouts." 

Mac grabs Veronica's shoes from her hands and drops them on the edge of the material. She pulls Veronica's hand and leads her down the beach. It's a perfect day to be near the ocean. School's in session so there aren't many teenagers around. The weather's warm enough to enjoy but cool enough to stay for hours. The waves are gentle. The sun glistens on the never-ending water. 

"I'm worried about you," Mac begins as they continue to stroll away from Mac's family. 

"Why is everyone worried about me? I'm fine. I keep telling you all I'm fine." 

"You've changed." 

"Nothing wrong with a little change," Veronica counters. "Maybe you can teach old dogs new tricks." 

"Dick called Madison who called Mom who called me to ask why you aren't returning anyone's calls." Veronica thinks about the logistics of this literal phone chain. Mac's mother does her best to maintain relationships with both her biological daughter and the daughter she raised since infancy. Their dynamics have not been easy, but even the most mundane families are complicated. 

"Anyone's or Logan's?" Veronica gazes at the ocean. There was a time when she would have been snapping photos of the gorgeous scenery and of her friend's children and family. These days she doesn't even have the incentive to take her phone from her pocket. 

"I suppose both," Mac replies. 

"I don't need a pity call." 

"Is that the half-brother of a booty call?"

"No, but definitely the step-sister of a pity fuck."

Mac laughs at Veronica's straight face. It's a good sign. Her wit hasn't died with her father. "Don't you think he's just trying to make sure you're OK?"

"Tell Natalie to tell Madison to tell Dick to tell Logan that I'm fine. I'm always fine," she says and wonders how quickly she can remove herself from the beach. She's already tired of talking about herself. When was the last time someone told her about a new movie they'd seen or about this great new author they'd found? No, all anyone wanted to do was to make sure she wasn't going to off herself any time soon. She calms and speaks again. "Anyway, he and I texted the other night. We're good. And really, Mac. I'm fine. Please don't worry about me and don't let anyone else worry about me." 

Mac plops down in the sand and Veronica takes that as a cue she's to follow her actions. "You've been through a traumatic event. It takes time to process that kind of grief." 

"I'm no different than anyone else. We all lose people we love. We all have to move on from a parent's death. That's life. Life is the slow road to death. People who lose children are in much worse shape than I am. Everyone handles this. I'll handle this. I am handling this." 

"I know you are, but maybe you need something or someone to pull you up a little bit," Mac says. "How long are you going to let yourself struggle like this before you get some help?" 

"I've turned a corner," she counters, trying to convince herself and her friend. "I started clearing my dad's stuff out of the apartment. I'm holding Mars Investigations together. We, I guess I mean I, could use more clients, but that's part of the daily struggle of owning your own business." 

"Do you need some money, Veronica?" Mac asks quietly. "I'm happy to help. Loan, gift, donation, whatever you need." 

Veronica scoffs. "No, I don't need your money, Mac. Pops had health insurance and he didn't leave any debts. But I did learn that he used his retirement savings to pay for my college tuition. I spent my inheritance on a college degree. Maybe not such a bad thing, huh?" 

"You going to stay in Neptune?"

"That's the million dollar question no one dares ask." 

"And? What's the answer?"

"I don't know. It's the perfect time to do something adventurous. Move to a foreign country. Try a new profession. Backpack around the world. Problem is that none of those sound better than sinking into my bed." 

"Why don't you move up near us?"

"Too expensive. San Francisco's the priciest real estate in the country." 

"Stay with us. As long as you want."

"Not sure you have the room for me. Doesn't your ex still live in the apartment over the garage?"

"That's what's called modern-day co-parenting."

"You're so evolved," says Veronica as she lets sand slip through her fingers. 

"More like practical."

"How do I know you don't just want a live-in babysitter?" 

"We've already got a great nanny. It's you we want," Mac says and leans over to bump her dear friend on the shoulder. Veronica thinks about how little physical contact she's had in the last few months. 

_Revelation #9: It's possible to live a fine life without touching another person._

"Thanks, Mac. I'll think about it, but I doubt it will happen." 

"Come on," Mac says as she pushes herself up from the sand. "Let's walk back through the water." She holds Veronica's hand lacing their fingers together as they wade into the ocean. 

**********

Veronica found a secluded grocery store on the way home from the beach, so she's sitting on Keith's bedroom floor pulling out his shoes with a bottle of iced tea to her side. The black non-woven grocery tote sits behind her back. In the bag rests the sealed black plastic container housing her father's gray ashes. Surrounding her are two pairs of sneakers, one pair of black dress shoes to go with his one blue suit, one pair of flip-flops she's never seen him wear, one pair of hiking boots, two pairs of "old man shoes," and one pair of slippers. They all look like he's spent his money on her education and she wonders if throwing them in the dumpster is the better option than donating them. 

She fills the black trash back and drags it near the front door. As she turns back into the kitchen area to wash her hands, she sees the outline of the tall figure walk past the window and stand in front of the door. The knock is quick and solid. She freezes, but she's certain he's seen her silhouette. She should have thought to close the blinds and curtains. The knock sounds again. 

"OK," she says, wiping her hands on a towel, and she makes her way to the door. She closes her eyes for three seconds, swallows, and stands as straight as she can, plastering a fake smile on her face as she opens the door. "Hey, Logan." 

"The reclusive Veronica Mars. I figured I'd have to track you to your natural habitat and bring food for the trap," he jokes as he holds the white paper bag higher. "Ice cream." 

"That's nice, Logan, but I'm actually in the middle of cleaning some things right now. I'm filthy and the apartment is a mess," she says her right foot propped behind the bottom of the door so it can only open a few inches. 

"As long as you can remember where you put the spoons, the rest doesn't matter. If you don't have clean spoons, we could probably use forks if we eat it quickly enough," he says and gives her a quick wink. 

She's forgotten what it's like to try to argue with Logan as he locks into her eyes. She turns her head and looks at the three trash bags lined up against the wall and then down at her stained shirt. She can't remember the last time she washed it. She's sure she didn't bother to run a comb through her hair before she shoved it into a messy bun when she got home from the beach. The apartment probably smells like death and ocean. When was the last time she opened a window? 

"Uh, yeah, OK, but just for a few minutes. I really do have a lot to get through tonight," she says without adding that it all needs to be accomplished by 7:30 so she can go to bed. She opens the door and he takes a quick look around the apartment without commenting. 

"Spoons?" he asks as he sets the bag on the counter. 

Plastic spoons. Silver spoons. Wooden spoons. Teaspoons. Tablespoons. Serving spoons. Of course, she has spoons. How could she survive without a solid supply of spoons? She pulls open the drawer next to the sink and hands him a spoon that she's used since childhood. Her mother, before her drunken days kicked in, had saved points from Betty Crocker boxes and had sent away for silverware with a rose pattern etched into the handles. 

"It's been a long time, Logan. Good thing my dad kicked the bucket or we'd have never made time for each other." 

Logan's wince is short-lived and he quickly brings himself back to his relaxed demeanor. "Like I said in my message, it's my fault, Veronica. I always meant to call or to stop by. I'd heard you were back in Neptune. I guess I was afraid you didn't want to see me. That's why you hadn't called. Because you were good without me around." 

"No problem. Didn't mean to make you feel guilty. Old friends, right?" she asks without looking at him. 

"The oldest," he concurs. He's forgotten how small she is. He could scoop her up, cradle her to the couch, and force her to tell him her secrets. "Caramel Cashew, Rocky Road, Fudge Swirl, or plain vanilla?" 

"Vanilla? Have you lost your mind?"

"With fudge, caramel, sprinkles, M&Ms, and cookie bits for toppings," he says as he pulls multiple containers from the bag. 

"Wow, you think of everything," Veronica says, her smile becoming less fake. "Fudge swirl, and hand me the caramel and M&Ms." She opens the cupboard behind her and pulls down the Mars' fine china, pieces picked up from thrift stores and garage sales. "We're going to need bowls for this. And more spoons." 

**********

The apartment has hardly changed in the evaporated years since he last visited. There was a time when he felt more at home in the space than in his own house. He'd slept on the couch when his world was collapsing. He'd kissed her in all the rooms, even in the bathroom. He'd taken her clothes off in every room, even her father's bedroom. They'd had fights there. They'd broken things, including each other's heart. But more than anything, he remembered how much they'd loved each other in that tiny apartment. That cozy home. 

Logan leaves the toppings sitting on the counter, but he puts the extra ice cream in the freezer. The only other things in the icebox are ice cubes and a bag of peas. He can't help but open the fridge and sees milk, butter, ketchup packets, and a gel eye mask. Her refrigerator is as empty as the look in her eyes. 

Each of them has a bowl, a spoon, and a napkin. Veronica's thankful thin, white napkins were included at the bottom of the ice cream bag because she can't think where the decorative napkins might be stashed. 

Logan sits on one side of the kitchen island and Veronica is across from him. He remembers a situation similar to this when they were in love and Keith had insisted on the three of them sharing a meal together. She was on his right then, not across from him. He could bump her knee "by accident," graze her fingers when her dad bent down to pick up the napkin he'd dropped on the floor. But she's farther away this time. There will be no random encounter tonight. 

"Tired of everyone asking you how you're doing?" Logan asks.

"So fucking tired of it." 

"And how are you doing?" 

She glares up at him before responding. "I'm just fucking great. Thanks for asking, jackass." 

He can't stop his laugh as the acerbic bobcat he knew so long ago makes a brief appearance. It's refreshing to see her go beyond her formulaic and emotionless responses. "How did we let so much time pass without talking to each other? You've always been one of my favorite people." 

"Still trying to charm the pants off women, I see," Veronica says as she rolls her eyes. 

"Hey, you work with what you've been given," he jokes.

"Oh, and the not talking thing was because we weren't talking." 

"Weren't we? That's not how I remember it." 

"You fucked up and I got pissed which led to our very quiet impasse." 

"I recall you broke my heart, although I'm not going to doubt my fucking up or you being pissed. That was just a regular Tuesday, wasn't it?" Logan comments before turning serious. "He was a good man, Veronica. You were lucky to have such a good father." 

Veronica drops her spoon into her bowl and the clink of the metal on porcelain echoes in the room. She looks down, puts her fingers on her forehead, and presses her elbows into the butcher-block counter. She realizes that one thing lying in bed has not taught her is how ice cream tastes when mixed with tears. 

"I fucking know that, Logan. He was a good man, a good father, a good friend, a good sheriff, a good detective. I know I was lucky. But I'm still pissed that he died and I'm pissed that he had to go through all that suffering. And I'm sad and I'm angry and I want to fucking punch something." Why is she telling him all this? She's gone so long keeping it to herself, making sure the world knows that she needs no one. 

"You get to be all those things. And you can punch me if you want," he bends his head down and looks into her shimmering blue eyes and smiles. "I have a feeling I could take punches from someone so tiny." 

Veronica wipes the tears from her cheeks and shakes her head remembering the abuse his father distributed not just to his son but to Veronica as well. "Not you, Logan. I don't think I could deal with the guilt associated with punching you." 

"When it's for a good cause, it's no problem." 

Veronica wants to change the subject as she tires quickly of the direction of the conversation. She tires quickly of everything these days. "Uh, you were gone? In your voicemail, you said you'd been away. Full disclosure, I only listened to part of your messages." 

"So you didn't hear the part where I admitted all of our teenage angst and fights had been my fault? Good to know. I don't have to have that hanging over me," he says with the smug expression he's given her for so many years. She goes back to stirring her ice cream. "Deployed. Seven and a half fucking months. Is it any wonder I don't have a girlfriend?" 

"If I know you, you've got a girl in every port."

"No ports. Just lots and lots of water and sky." 

"What happens now that you're back?" 

"Two weeks of nothing but couching surfing and body surfing. Then back to reality."

"What's reality?" she asks.

"Stationed in Lemoore. Navy. Flying planes. Didn't you know that?"

"Not really. But I'm guessing the rumor about you having to choose between jail and the military wasn't accurate."

Logan laughs and rubs his hands through his short hair. "Was that a rumor? Where'd you hear that? National Enquirer?" 

"No idea. Maybe I made it up," Veronica jokes. "Honestly, I don't hear much about you. People think I'm better off not knowing what's happening in your life. It's assumed that all conversation about you ceases when I enter a room." She pushes her bowl aside, looks at the clock, sighs, and closes here eyes for a few seconds. 7:45. How did that happen? 

"Tired?" asks Logan.

"Past my bedtime." 

"Want me to tuck you in?"

"I'd be too embarrassed to have you go in that room. It stinks worse than the living room," Veronica confesses. 

"How about dinner tomorrow night? Can I take you out?" Logan's never been sure what her answer would be to his suggestion of a date. Even when they were actually dating, he wasn't surprised when she turned him down for a better offer. In fact, she's the only woman he's ever known who is more likely to turn down his invitations than to accept. 

"I don't think the mourning period has ended yet. Do you have a problem being seen in public with a woman in a black dress, hat, and veil?" 

"How about if we go outside the city limits of Neptune and pretend that no one knows who we are, the shit we've pulled, and the crap we've endured." 

"Is there such a place?"

"I'll make it my mission to find it. Pick you up at 7:00?" 

Veronica panics about the time, a night out, and when she'll be back home. "Oh, uh, I'm not really sure. That's, uh, probably not a good idea." 

"Need to be home for a big date?" Logan asks unfazed by her reaction. 

It's been a long time since Veronica had a date, big or little. Before Keith became sick, she had started dating Josh, a local firefighter. She'd met him while she was volunteering at a dog rescue booth at the "Hometown Heroes Appreciation Day" at the park in downtown Neptune. He was a nice guy with even nicer shoulders. It wasn't a match made in heaven, but she was looking forward to a few months of fun. When the diagnosis came, she broke things off quickly. There was no need for him to endure her at her worst. 

He'd sent a sympathy card a few days after Keith died. That's how Veronica knew word about Keith's death was making its way around Neptune. The card had been signed by several of the older guys at the fire station who had known Keith from their shared years serving the community. The handwriting on the envelope was Josh's, though, so Veronica didn't need to suspect who had been behind the gesture. She should call him, call and thank him. She knows she won't. 

Being with Josh had been simple, and that was the only requirement Veronica had at the time. It took Veronica years to realize that she could pick up men with ease. Once she discovered this new concept, Veronica never had to worry about finding a date or a sex partner. She hadn't met many men who didn't seem to be at least somewhat interested in cozying up to her. Fun, companionship, good or adequate sex were all straightforward. She'd faked orgasms, faked caring, even faked sympathy with some of them, but real, hot, steamy chemistry was impossible to mask. And she'd found it rarely. And no matter how much work she put in, if it wasn't there, it wasn't there. 

When she blew off Stanford to move to Hawaii, she told herself it was the perfect place to escape from Neptune. The plane ride was only a few hours, but no one she knew would be able to hop in their car and spontaneously surprise her with a weekend visit. She'd return home at Christmas break, but find a reason to stay on campus during the summer. It also didn't hurt that she finally admitted to herself that she had a thing for surfers. And there were lots of those in Hawaii. There also happened to be a lot of them in Neptune, California, and Josh had been one of them. 

"A date with my bed," Veronica replies with a heavy sigh. 

"And will there be someone else in that bed with you?" Logan asks as he raises one eyebrow.

Logan's heard little about Veronica's social life over the years. She had always been able to keep her business on lock-down. It's hard for him to imagine someone hasn't domesticated her yet if she's been at all interested in that kind of life. If she is interested in love, he's sure there are men waiting in several lines for a chance to be with her. He wonders how many men have whispered their devotion to her, have longed for years by her side, have worshipped her from afar and from her bed. 

He had been in and out of open liaisons, one-night stands, set-ups, and even a few long-term monogamous relationships. He'd uttered the word "love" to more than one woman since he'd last confessed that feeling to Veronica. But now his life in the navy always seems to take precedence over romance. What he felt for Veronica in high school and that first part of college was the pinnacle to which he knows love has to reach for him to make a real commitment to someone else. She ruined him. Every woman has to measure up according to the Veronica scale. 

"Just me." 

Logan studies her for a few minutes in silence. "Why didn't you call me? Send out any kind of signal?" 

"I didn't call anyone. Just texted a couple of people. I'm fine. Really." 

"Not just about your dad. In general." 

Veronica sighs again and pauses before speaking. Relationships, or her inability to have many of them, are topics she thinks about a lot. It's not just Logan she doesn't call. It's not that she isn't interested in being part of alliances, but it's more that she doesn't want to intrude. She's not spoken the words before, and she doesn't know if what she thinks will make sense to anyone else. Or if she's merely justifying her actions or lack of actions. 

She begins slowly. "I want to preface my statements by stating for the record that I'm a feminist. I don't want you to think I'm living by some antiquated set of rules. But I don't think you can really know what it's like to be a single female. Most of my married friends are parents and they hardly have time to enjoy their partners and kids, let alone worry about a fifth wheel. And single women have to be careful. One wrong move can lead to assumptions. Businesses can fail because of those assumptions." 

Logan thinks about the rumors she endured in high school. Maybe he hadn't started them, maybe he knew they weren't true, but he'd done little to stop them or ease her pain when she most needed a release from her torture. At best, he had been complicit. At worst, he had been destructive. "I get that, but we're old friends, Veronica. Old friends can talk and meet up." 

"Of course, but until recently, my life has been, I don't know, without burden. Uncomplicated. I'm available. So when my friends have time, they know they can call or text and we can talk or get coffee or see a movie. Whatever fits into their schedules. I don't need to be adding strife to their hectic lives. Let them fit me in, not the other way around. And I didn't know about your life. It was better to keep a distance than to cause conflict." 

"Is it automatic that the two of us equals conflict?" 

Veronica thinks back on the memories of their life together. They always had passion, whether it was fighting or loving. No one else had ever caused her to feel so much, to think so much, to want to trust so much. But they were young, and if Veronica feels even one thing these days, it is definitely not young. Or passionate. "Maybe not. But you're busy. We're both busy. We have our own lives to be living."

"I've got time to fit you in to my life."

"How about when you're gone for 7 1/2 months? Got the time then?"

"We'd figure it out."

"How about when you're gone for 7 1/2 months and my dad's dying? Could you have been the shoulder I needed?" asks Veronica. 

"No." 

"See. You didn't need that shit. You don't need any of my shit. No one does." 

"But you make it sound like you're an afterthought. That you're unimportant." 

"I am. I'm not as important as someone's spouse or children. Or their career. And that's how it should be," Veronica pauses a moment to collect her thoughts. "I suppose it's one of the reasons I came back to Neptune. My dad called. The business needed help. He needed me, and I knew it was hard for him to ask. But we could burden each other without disrupting others." 

"I'm not sure you realize how important you've been in my life." 

"Yeah, OK. We were there for each other when we needed it. But how important are we to each other if we can go so long without talking?" 

"I guess I thought you'd let me know when you were ready. Ready to forgive. Ready to move on. Ready to be friends again. New old friends." 

"God, I want to be ready to move on," Veronica acknowledges, wondering what it will take to get her to move from her bed back into life. 

"Great. I'd really like that," Logan confesses believing she is agreeing to his presence in her life. He's waited too many years to hear those words from her mouth. "Let's move on. See each other again. Talk again. Be friends. Again."

"Sounds like a lot of work. More work than either of us have the energy for." 

"I'm willing if you are," Logan states. He looks at his old friend and misses the energy that was a constant on her face. He misses the way her brain spasmed and manifested it in her voice. It's impossible not to worry about the person that sits across from him. "Do you have a go-to, Veronica?"

"A what?"

"Someone you can go to when you need something, need someone to listen." 

"Oh, yeah, of course I do." 

"Someone other than Keith." 

Veronica looks away before answering. "Yeah, I've got Eli." 

"Eli? Who's Eli?" Logan asks confused thinking she had just told him that she's single, available, unattached, free to date him.

"You know. Weevil," she answers reverting to the high school nickname that slipped away in adulthood. 

"You hang with Weevil?" Logan asks with shock. 

"What can I say? I have this innate ability to see the good in bad boys." 

"That's you. Ms. Brightside. Always looking for the positive," Logan mocks. 

"I'll have you know I'm the godmother to his second daughter. When you look at me, don't you immediately think of the words 'spiritual guidance'?" 

"I'm not sure what is more remarkable - that you spend time with Weevs, that he has two daughters, or that you're a religious guru." 

"He feels indebted because he met his wife at MI. She was temping for my dad before I came back. Eli stopped by and they hit it off. He worked for my dad sometimes, you know. Did you know that?"

Logan shakes his head. "Seriously hadn't thought about him in years." 

"Nor him you, I'm pretty sure," Veronica retorts. 

"Yeah, well, good, OK, yeah. That's good. Good that you have someone," he says as he reflects on their conversation. "Yeah, so you needed a shoulder from the past, and he was the one you turned to." Logan realizes how much it hurts to know she didn't turn to him, that she never turned to him. 

"That's not it exactly. I didn't go looking for him. He's just always been around. Constant." 

"Right. The good guy is the one who stays. What about the girl who leaves?" questions Logan.

"She's definitely not getting a hero's cape," Veronica admits. 

"And, by the way, I didn't leave. Three years I waited for you to figure out your shit."

"Technically, that's true," Veronica says. 

"Not technically. It is true." 

"Well, I'm sorry to tell you if you're waiting for me to have my shit figured out, you're going to have to keep waiting. Most days I'm convinced my head may be more fucked up now than it was when I was 17." Veronica can't help but smile. "This is going to sound warped, but I've forgotten what it's like to spar with you. I kind of miss it."

"Yeah, you were always the one who was picking fights in our relationship," Logan jokes, repaying her with a smile. 

"I won't disagree with you on that," tempers Veronica. "Hell, I won't fight you on anything these days. I just don't care enough to fight. Don't care enough to, to, to anything." 

"You cared about your dad, and he'd hate to hear that. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, but your dad would hate to see you like this. He'd hate thinking about how much pain he's causing you."

"Nice try. But you are trying to make me feel guilty. And it's almost working." 

"Go out with me. Tomorrow night. Think how it would rile your dad to have me back in your life. Do it because it will piss Dick off even more."

"Now that's tempting," Veronica says and her face finally lightens. "Any day when Dick is annoyed with me is a day worth living." Within seconds, her face aligns itself back into a void of expression. 

Logan realizes he doesn't know this Veronica, the woman a crevice away from him who has no hope, no future, no passion, no interest of any kind. Part of the reason he has existed all these years is because of the image he had of her in his mind. As long as that girl, that young woman, that dynamo, that bobcat existed, he had a reason to come back from every mission. There was a chance he would come back to her. Back home to his Veronica. She looks tired, looks lost, looks beaten. "Are you going to be OK, Veronica? You're going to be OK, Veronica. I'll make sure you're going to be OK." 

"You don't have that power, Logan," she admits. She looks across at the man she loved so long ago. She wants to fall into him. She wants to run away from him. She wants him to save her. She wants him to walk away without turning back. She wants to feel their passion. She wants to feel nothing. She wants. At least, she wants. Instead, she says the only thing that is real. "I'm exhausted."

"Yeah, I should go," Logan stands as he says the words. He pads to the door, and Veronica follows his movements, leaving the dirty bowls on the island top. Logan opens the door and turns back to his old friend. He can't resist his emotions and sweeps her into an embrace. Veronica puts her arms around his waist, fitting into this hug better than the last one she had with Sara Navarro. "I'm sorry the situation sucks, but it's good to spend time with you again. You're important to me, Veronica."

Veronica nods her head as her body remains tight to his chest. She drops her hands from him and he backs away from her towards the door. "Thanks for the ice cream," she says as she closes the door and gives a quick wave and smile. Veronica locks the door behind him, turns off the lights, and walks towards her bed. When she picks up her phone to put it on the charger, she sees the text. 

_I'll pick you up at 7:00._

_Let me get back to you on that._

_If you stand me up, I'll send Dick over to harass you every day on the hour._

_Not a threat. I told you I'm looking for someone to punch. He'd be just perfect._

_See you tomorrow, Bobcat._

Veronica looks at the piles of laundry and the filth in her bedroom. It's time to make a tiny move. "One small step," she tells herself. She fills the green plastic basket and promises herself that tomorrow she'll head to the communal laundry room to clean up a small portion of her life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for allowing me to be part of the Veronica Mars writing community in 2017. It is a privilege to be able to work on my writing in this forum, and I appreciate all the comments you have supplied, both positive and negative. I know this story is a bit of a downer (maybe a super-downer) especially around Christmas, but I wanted to post my twelfth project before the end of the year. I thank you for reading, commenting, and liking or disliking my work.


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